


Home Away From Home

by fairdeath



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Bittersweet, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Mild Blood, Mild Sexual Content, Shidge Valentine's Exchange, Valentine's Day Fic Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-12 20:40:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13555170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairdeath/pseuds/fairdeath
Summary: Shiro is her home away from home. Maybe one day, years from now when they’ve saved the universe and someone younger and stronger has come along to take over as the paladins, they can go back to Earth and Shiro can be her home. No ‘away from’. No ‘in space’ or ‘when they’re not fighting crazy purple cat-bat hybrid male soldiers’. They’ll get an apartment not too far from her parents, they’ll adopt some of the street kittens and name them after the lions.For TechnicalSlytherin on tumblr.





	Home Away From Home

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Shidge Valentine's Exchange! This is my gift for technicalslytherin. I originally had an idea for space-flower hanahaki, but I just got back from spending 5 weeks with my partner who lives halfway across the world and have been feeling too bittersweet over it to write anything other than this.

Space is big. Bigger than the desert sky at night, no light pollution for miles, stars brighter than the sparkle in her eyes. Bigger than the desert itself, nothing but cacti and carcasses. The stars emit warmth, a blazing furious fire of energy. It reminds her of her mom’s cheers of excitement when her dad was chosen for the Kerberos mission, when Matt was accepted into the Garrison, when  _she_ was accepted into the Garrison, barely a teen with a brain the size of the bookcases that lined her room. Space is big but somehow familiar.

That doesn’t mean Pidge doesn’t miss home.

She misses the sun on her face, her freckles darkening in the strength of the mid-summer ultraviolet rays. She misses the sound of Matt complaining that Star Wars is “mathematically impossible” with its space-vehicle designs. She misses the smell of her dad’s roast each Sunday filling the house, filling her nostrils. She misses the sound of her mom’s knitting needles clicking rhythmically along to daytime television shows. She misses the clattering of Bae Bae’s collar through the house, of his little cries when someone passed the house.

It isn’t all bad though.

Shiro’s chest is a perfect pillow. The sound of his snores keeps loneliness at bay. The warmth of his body keeps out the bone-deep cold of space. The way his smile lights up when he looks at her, and not just for the genius moments she has – and there are many. The way the corners of his eyes crease when he smiles at her when she’s eating her food goo in the morning, hair every direction except where it should be, there’s sleep in the corners of her eyes, and her tank top is twisted to where it should be uncomfortable. Shiro’s laugh replaces the silence, the emptiness of the space between the ship and home. The radiance of Shiro’s smile replaces the warmth of the sun.

When she kisses him, stretched on her toes, her hand fisted into whatever part of his clothing, tugging him down to her height, her other hand cupping his face or woven into his hair… Pidge feels at home. When she’s covered in sweat, dirt, and whatever the Galran army’s fur is made of, and Shiro still looks at her like she put the moon and stars in the sky, she feels at home. When she’s added new features to the lions and telling the team about it, and everyone is curious about how it works or discussing situations they can use them in, and Shiro is proudly smiling from the sidelines, arms folded as he leans against the wall, his eyes filled with love and adoration for Pidge’s brains, drive, determination, she is at home.

The sun against her face in summer, the warmth enveloping her form, cannot compare to the warmth of Shiro, his chest her pillow, his arms her security blanket, his soft rise and fall of his chest like the push and pull of the tide. The night sky, unendingly wide, darkness splattered with glistening stars, cannot compare to Shiro’s unending pride for her creations, her adoration for technology, her aspiration to learn, to grow. The smell of a Sunday roast filling the house, luring everyone to the kitchen, of rosemary and thyme and lemon and garlic, cannot compare to Shiro, early morning, the must of sleep thick, but screaming of safety, of security, of love and adoration, of morning breath that should gross her out, but tells her he finds comfort in her presence. The clicking of knitting needles cannot be heard over the sound of Shiro’s grunts and huffs as he trains unendingly, always making sure he is the best he can be. Shiro’s arm whirs, snips, clicks, buzzes, almost a reflection of his subconscious thoughts and feelings. The noise of it brings Pidge comfort, the soft, dull tones a reminder that they’re together and they’re alive.

Pidge is lightyears, perhaps  _centuries_  from home. The sun is too far gone to even leave residual warmth. The red desert sand of her home only remains nearby in the grains embedded into the innersoles of her shoes. Pidge hasn’t seen her mom for so long that she’s not sure the memory of her laughter is entirely correct. But Shiro… Shiro is her home now. His laughter, his huffs when Lance and Hunk are overly excited, his smile, the way he grips the forelock of his hair before running his fingers through the rest when he becomes stressed, his humming to nondescript tunes without realising he’s doing it, his habit of smoothing his food goo into a perfectly flat plane after each bite. All of it screams  _home_  in a way that it shouldn’t, being further than any human has been from home before.

Shiro is her home away from home. Maybe one day, years from now when they’ve saved the universe and someone younger and stronger has come along to take over as the paladins, they can go back to Earth and Shiro can be her home. No ‘away from’. No ‘in space’ or ‘when they’re not fighting crazy purple cat-bat hybrid male soldiers’. They’ll get an apartment not too far from her parents, they’ll adopt some of the street kittens and name them after the lions.

But for now, covered in scars so fresh they glisten in the light, sinewy muscle instead of a soft stomach and full hips, hair like a high school drop out surfer, the weight of defending the universe on her shoulders, Pidge will take what she can get.

She will come home from a rough fight, she will help carry Lance to a healing chamber, she will watch  _someone’s_  blood spiral towards the drain in the shower. She will tug on a shirt far too big to be her own and drag her feet to Shiro’s quarters. She will pluck the phone from his taut fingers and kiss the pads of each one before setting a knee on either side of his hips and resting on his thighs. Her plump lips will envelop his, will caress them and love them and bruise them with all her love and adoration and endearment and yearning and ardour. He will grip her hips and press back with all the tenderness, warmth, and passion he can muster, mutterings of “I love you,” lost to the huffs and whimpers they pull from one another. His brow will furrow as her hands wind in his hair, as her fingernails scrape at his pectorals. He will caress her skin with press after press of kisses to jaw, collarbone, to breast and hip, with endearments murmured into the burning patches where his touch lingers. Her hands will dance over his skin, over his titanium arm, over the rise and fall of scar of overlapping scar, her mouth will suck love-bite after love-bite into his already battle bruised skin. They will hold one another, they will adore one another, and when they bring each other to climax they will reach for the other’s hand to hold and press kisses into the palm of.

Space is not her home, but Shiro’s arms tugging her impossibly closer after every time they must part get damn close. And one day, when all is said and done, she’ll feel the warmth of the sun on her face, and the warmth of his summer-sweat laden form holding her from behind, she’ll hear the whirring and buzzing of his arm in time with her mom’s knitting needles, will go to sleep wrapped in his arms on a Sunday night, the lingering smell of rosemary and lemon and garlic and thyme clinging to his skin when he slides into bed, will feel the grounding touch of his wide palm rubbing circles into her back as he debates the mathematical impossibilities of Star Wars when they’ve been piloting  _giant robot cats_  that run of  _life energy_  from a  _crystal_  that was found from an  _interdimensional rift_  to her brother.

For now, they will defend the universe, they will break bones and take lives, then they will wash the blood from their limbs and hold one another impossibly close. Until they can defend their seconds at dinner, break wishbones, wash the dishes side by side, and hold one another impossibly close when the night is through, this is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> **for age discourse reasons pls note because im an Old Man i always envision everyone aged up/in their 20s


End file.
